


Five Times Jack O'Neill Gave Sam His Tags and 1 Time She Gave Him Hers

by professortennant



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: 5 Times, Angst, Dog Tags, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 05:51:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15066560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: Jack swallowed hard and tried not to think about how much he really, really liked seeing his name hanging from his second in command’s neck. Or, 5 times in which dog tags played a prominent role in Sam and Jack's relationship.





	Five Times Jack O'Neill Gave Sam His Tags and 1 Time She Gave Him Hers

**I.**

After Turghan, Jack had promised himself that he’d stick by Carter’s side a little tighter; maybe stand a little closer than protocol strictly dictated to give off some vague impression of possession should the question ever arise. 

And arise it had. 

The leader of PX5-972′s tribe looked at them with narrowed eyes, gaze darting between Sam and the rest of SG-1. “Who does this  _woman_  belong to?”

Jack stepped forward, finger on the trigger of his P90 just in case. He shot a look at Sam and smiled slightly to himself at the sight of her biting down hard on her lip to stop herself from protesting at the disdain with which  _woman_  was said and the insinuation that she belonged to anyone.

“She’s with me,” he said, hoping that would settle the matter. For the most part, their matching uniforms and military stances helped sell the ruse they were together. 

The man’s eyes traveled over Sam’s form and he watched as she glared back, refusing to drop his gaze, her back straightening and shoulders squaring. 

“You don’t  _claim_  your woman? No ring? No collar? How do the others of your world know she is taken?”

There was a pause as SG-1 shared a rush of silent communication–raised eyebrows and widened eyes and parted lips. And then Daniel was stepping in, his cultural knowledge scraping for an excuse. 

“Our customs dictate a public exchange of, of, necklaces!” Daniel grinned at Jack and Sam, his eyes lingering on the silver chain of their dog tags. “Their names are inscribed on the metal and each morning and evening they exchange them. Uh, Jack, go ahead.”

Jack looked startled for a moment, wondering if this guy was actually buying the crap Daniel was spewing, before sighing and sliding his gun to his side, hands going to his dog tags around his neck and lifting them up over his head.

A few steps later and he was standing before his second in command, grinning at her with bright, warm brown eyes. “Well, Carter, whaddya say? Be my woman?”

She snorted at his irreverence and rolled her eyes. “You romantic, sir,” she deadpanned. 

He slipped his dog tags over her head, knuckles brushing over her hair and ears as he settled the metal around her neck. Jack adjusted the tags on the front of her shirt, his name upon the metal facing outwards.

“There,” he said softly. “Claimed.”

A gentle blush spread across Carter’s cheeks and she ducked her head, hands tightening their grip on her P90.

As the tribal leader clapped his hands in delight and waved them on into the village, Jack swallowed hard and tried not to think about how much he really, really liked seeing his name hanging from his second in command’s neck. 

**II.**

Daniel and Teal’c were passed out in the prison corner, catching a few hours of sleep in between watches. Jack grimaced and pressed fingers to his tender ribs, already knowing they were broken and, judging from the new gurgling rasp to his breath, that they had either punctured the lung or were pressing dangerously close against the lining. 

They had an escape plan to enact tomorrow: distract the guards, break the control crystals, head for the rings, and then hightail it to the Stargate–all while fighting and dodging a couple battalions of Jaffa. Easy breezy.

But no matter SG-1′s miraculously lucky streak and no mater how Carter spun the odds of survival, he knew his chances of making it to the Stargate were slim. He’d do anything in his power to at least get his team back home safe. 

A warm weight settled next to him and he shuddered out a breath. 

“Carter,” he acknowledged. “You should be sleeping.”

She shrugged, drawing equations and star charts into the dirt at their feet. “Just going over the plan for tomorrow and couldn’t sleep.”

“You’ll be fine, Carter.”

He felt her gaze drill a hole into the side of his head, her doodles in the dirt stopping abruptly. “ _We’ll_  be fine, sir. You, included.”

Jack smiled softly at the fierceness in her voice, her insistence that he would come out of this just as fine, just as alive, as the rest of them. The sharp pain in his chest and the rattling breath he drew reminded him that he may not be seeing the SGC again. 

He reached up and tugged his dog tags from his neck and dangled them between their bodies, offering them to her silently. She sucked in a sharp breath of surprise and pushed his hand away, “No, sir. Don’t you–Don’t–”

He pretended to not hear the crack in her voice or see the glint of tears in her eyes. “Sam,” he said softly, pushing the tags back at her. “Please. I want you to take them, just in case. If I–If I don’t come back. Bury them with Charlie. Just take them.”

She let out a strangled half-moan of distress before clenching her jaw and taking the tags from him, looping the metal around her neck, nestled right next to hers. 

He sagged in relief, knowing this one thing would at least be taken care of–one less thing to worry about tomorrow in the back of his head. Sam rested her head on his shoulder, the silence descending upon them, easy and familiar. They always worked better, communicated better, in the silence. 

“I’m giving these back to you in 9 hours, sir. And then I’m kicking your ass for giving them to me in the first place.”

He rested his head against hers, hiding his grin into her hair and forgetting the pain in his chest for a brief moment. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

**III.**

The alien virus struck the women of the base hard but Carter, as Patient Zero, fell ill first and fell ill hardest. The virus caused confusion and dizziness, memory loss, and fleeting moments of aggression. Few things, in Jack O’Neill’s opinion, were as scary as watching the bright light behind Samantha Carter’s eyes dim in lost confusion, all spark of otherworldly intelligence and awareness disappearing. 

The first, wild swing at General Hammond and the primal scream she let out earned her a one way trip to the SGC infirmary. Jack watched from her bedside as she thrashed in her infirmary bed, screaming and crying and begging to be let go. His heart leapt to his throat and he looked at Janet helplessly, “Doc, help her!”

The tiny doctor rushed forward and brushed her hands over Sam’s face, shining a light against her pupils and checking for a reaction. But Sam continued her thrashing, hips lifting off the bed. 

Janet cursed and turned to the Colonel. “Help me hold her down.” She turned and ordered the nearest airman to bring her a set of restraints. 

Jack hastily obeyed, grabbing Sam’s arms and leaning over her, keeping his voice low. “C’mon, Carter, snap out of it. C’mon, c’mon...”

His dog tags swung out from beneath his black undershirt and the edge of the tag brushed over her nose. She stilled and looked up at him, arm sneaking free of his hold and grasping the chain, holding the metal tag closer to her eyes. 

“Jack,” she said slowly, eyes widening. For a moment, Jack saw recognition and awareness peak through her face, eyes brightening and staring at him. Her fingers curled around the metal and tugged and he went down with her, their faces a hair’s breadth apart. 

“Jack,” she whispered, imploring and pleading. He just nodded, encouraged, hoping that whatever had struck Carter was over. 

“Yeah, Sam,” he said, voice low and soothing. “It’s Jack.”

Beside them, Janet and the airman stood watching the interaction, restraints at the ready. 

Carter tugged at his dog tags again and chanted to herself  _Jack Jack Jack._ Whatever it was about his dog tags, it soothed something inside of Sam and he would sit here as long as it took until Doc Fraiser and her merry band of airman could figure out what the hell was going on. 

He stayed with her, nose brushing over Carter’s occasionally as she continue her exam of his dog tags, the pads of her fingertips tracing over the engraved name and blood type and date and identification number. 

After a while, though, staying hunched over in this position was hell on his back and knees. He couldn’t sit in the chair at her bedside without strangling himself. Jack figured it wasn’t really  _him_  that sick Carter was attached to--it was his tags. She was finally dozing softly--partially due to the comfort of his dog tags and partially because of the light sedative Janet had administered. 

Licking his lips, Jack wriggled as gently as possible and lifted the chain from his neck. The rest of the metal fell onto her chest, his tags still safely encased in her fist. He let out a little groan of relief when he finally could sit down.

In the bed before him, Sam stirred a little and she let out a breathy, “ _Jack...”_

He tried to not let the sound get to him, tried not to imagine that breathy sound echoing off the walls in his bedroom. Shaking himself from his fantasy detour, he slipped his hand into hers, thumb stroking over the inside of her risk. 

She rolled onto her side towards him and drew her clenched fist with his dog tags in it up beneath her chin, sighing softly. 

He was more than happy to be her anchor.

**IV.**

Cassie frowned at him from her position on his lap, fingers tugging at the chain around his neck. “But  _why_ do only you and Mom and Sam wear these?” Her eyes lit up. “Can I have some, too?”

He laughed and ruffled her hair, swinging her up and off his lap and taking her smaller hand in his, leading her to the ice cream stand across the way from the park. 

“Only military wears ‘em, Cass.”

He ordered them an ice cream each--chocolate cone for him and strawberry for her. They munched and linked happily at the confection and Jack forgot how much fun it was to be around kids like this--eating ice cream on a sunny day and asking questions just because you could. 

“But  _why_  do you wear them?”

He sighed and took a thoughtful lick of his ice cream. “It’s complicated, sweetheart. Sometimes when we go off-world or to another country and things go wrong and we can’t come back, the military uses our dog tags--that’s what we call ‘em--to identify us.”

He hoped he didn’t need to explain further. Cassie was wise beyond her years and probably understood exactly why they would need to be identified. Cassie bit into her ice cream and hummed. 

“And then what?”

He shrugged, pulling the car keys from his pocket as they approached his truck. “And then they give your tags to someone really special to you so they can have closure, a piece of you after you’re gone. It’s--it’s complicated, Cass. The tags mean a lot to military. It’s a piece of who you are, a scrap of yourself when you’re a long way from home.”

They clambered up into the truck and Jack finished off the last bite of ice cream, wincing as Cassie’s melting dessert dripped onto his upholstery. 

“I get it,” she said softly. “I’d,” she hesitated before continuing. “I wish my mom had something like that before...”

He heard the sadness tinge her voice and he reached out to cup her shoulder and the back of her head in comfort. “I know, kiddo.” 

Shaking off the memories, Cassie turned a mischievious look towards Jack. “So,” she said slowly, dragging out the ‘o’ sound and grinning. “You’re not married.”

He furrowed his brow at her. “No,” he confirmed.

“And you don’t have any siblings?”

“Nope.”

“So, someone  _else_  who was special would get your tags, right?”

He turned a sharp eye on her, wondering where she was going with this. “I suppose,” he said, laughter in his voice.

Cassie shrugged and turned to face towards the windshield, sneaking a glance at him from the corner of her eye. 

“Sam’s pretty special to you, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Sam’s pretty special.”

“So, if something happened to you....she’d get your tags?”

Jack’s grip on the steering wheel tightened and he imagined a world in which a couple of airmen and General Hammond had to hand Sam his tags along with the letter addressed to her in his desk. He didn’t want to think about Sam sliding his tags alongside her own, the only piece of him--the only memory of him--she had left. 

He cleared his throat and shook the image from his mind. 

“Yeah, Cass. She’s the special someone who would get my tags.”

**V.**

Jack inhaled deeply, gathering his nerve and hoping to God that Pete wasn’t with her tonight. He couldn’t do this on base--it was too personal, too much. A few short raps upon her door later, she was standing before him looking soft and tousled, wrapped in a too-large USAF sweatshirt and thin pajama pants. 

She looked surprised to see him on her porch and she hugged the door to he hip. “Uh, what are you doing here, sir?”

He dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I needed to talk to you about something.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. She opened the door wider and gestured at her entry hall. “Did you want to come in?”

He thought about the temptation of being alone in her house with her, wrapped up in the scent of her, her soft skin and warm body only a few inches from him. It was too much to fight against and he was already feeling weak, already feeling stretched too thin and too tested. 

He shook his head and shuffled his feet, “Uh, no, that’s okay. I’ll be quick. It’s just, I just-- _Ah, hell._ ”Words were never his strong suit, anyway. He withdrew his hand from his jean pocket and held out the tangled silver chain and dog tags.

She gaped at him, eyes darting from his outstretched hand to his eyes--eyes that were warm and open and pleading, tinged with sadness and a touch of desperation. 

“Sir...”

He shook his head against the honorific. “No, not ‘sir.’ Not for this, Sam.”

She stared, her tight grip on the door turning her knuckles white. “And what  _is_  ‘this’?”

And wasn’t that the question of the decade. 

He drew his shoulders back, hand holding his dog tags still outstretched between them. “I can’t give you a ring, Sam. Not now and I know, I know you got tired of waiting for  _someday_. But I can’t let you go or marry Pete without offering you this.” He pushed the tags towards her again. 

He hoped she understood what he was saying; hoped that whatever connection they shared allowed her to see that he was offering everything he had ever held dear to him to her--his life wrapped up and personified by a metal plate with his name and burial preferences stamped into a tag and chain. 

Sam stepped out from behind her door onto the porch in front of him, the pair of them illuminated by her porch light. Her fingers reached between them, brushing over the tags and the skin of his palm and wrist and fingers. He watched with rapt attention as she gently took the tags from his hand and pressed her thumb into the engraving of his name. 

She looked up at him, eyes shining with tears and her teeth sunken into the flesh of her bottom lip. “Jack,” she said softly, voice breaking. 

She pushed the tags back at him. 

The air rushed from his lungs and the color drained from his face. She didn’t want him anymore--didn’t want  _someday._ He hoped he wasn’t swaying on the spot, hoped she didn’t see the way his heart shattered in his chest and spread numbing coldness throughout his body and down his fingertips. 

He had forgotten what heartbreak truly felt like. 

Numbly, he took the tags from her--took his offer of a life, of a love and a future back. He wondered how much Scotch he’d have to drink tonight to forget this feeling. 

And then she was there, hands ghosting over his hands and up his arms, brushing his cheek gently. “Jack.” Her voice was low and warm and the crooked finger beneath his chin lifted his gaze to hers and she was smiling-- _smiling--_ at him. 

“I know it’s not a ring, but you could at least put it on me.”

His broken heart pieced itself back together in the time it took him to see her smile and warmth courtesy of Samantha Carter rushed through his body once more. He grinned at her easy acceptance and lifted the chain around her neck, deliberately trailing the backs of his fingers against her ears and neck, taking careful time to adjust the pair of tags between the valley of her breasts.

The back of his knuckles grazed the swell of her breast and she gasped, swaying forward. He wanted to kiss her, wanted to seal the deal of their facsimile of an engagement, of this promise, in the traditional way--even if nothing about this, about them, was traditional. 

He stepped back, hands trailing over her arms, his eyes glued to his name resting over her heart. 

“Hold on, Sam,” he said softly. “Someday is coming soon, I promise. Just--just hold on.”  
  
She pressed her hand over his heart and nodded. “Holding on, sir.”  
  
**VI.**

"Honey, I’m home!”

Sam rolled her eyes at her husband’s greeting, calling out from the kitchen, “In here.” 

He strode in and tossed his cover onto the counter, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her softly, pressing his lips to hers lightly and then more insistently, tongue sweeping over the seam of her lips. 

She hummed against him and pulled away, enjoying the way Jack’s eyes remained closed a half-second after their kiss ended, as if he was still savoring her touch. 

“I have something for you,” she said, turning towards the kitchen table where a black box sat. He grinned and wrapped his arms around her again, hand palming her breast and his hips pressing into hers from behind. 

His lips sucked at her pulse point and he murmured into her skin, “I bet you do.”

She swatted him away and made a grab for the box on the table, turning and pressing it into his chest. 

He quirked an eyebrow at her, turning his attention to the box and missing the apprehension and nervousness on his wife’s face. “Why, Carter, it’s not even my birthday.”

He lifted the hinged lid and stared at the contents. Sam held her breath as she watched him pull out the tiny link-metal chain with three dog tags on it. 

On one tag, her name was engraved:  _Samantha Carter-O’Neill. DOB 08/28/65._

On another, his name was engraved:  _Jack O’Neill. DOB 01/23/50._

And finally, on the middle tag, was engraved:  _Baby Carter-O’Neill. DOB: TBD._

His large hands held the tiny dog tags in his palm, cradling the cool metal, his lips forming the words silently over and over again:  _Baby O’Neill_. 

Sam twisted her hands in front of her anxiously. “Jack? Are you--Do you--”

But her question was cut off as Jack wrapped his arms around her, his face buried into her neck, shoulders shaking with tears and laughter and sobs. “We’re gonna have a  _baby_ , Sam. A baby, I--”

She sagged against him in relief and felt his hand palm her belly, searching for signs of life already, searching for changes to her body that he had somehow missed with his lips and tongue and hands last night. 

Between them, their hands wrapped around the set of dog tags--the first Carter-O’Neill family portrait of sorts. 

About nine months later, that set of tags hung happily above their daughter’s crib. 


End file.
